Match Made in jannah✅

CHAPTER 33: PAIN.

ABUJA, NIGERIA.

It has been five torturous months since Maha slipped into a coma, an abyss that swallowed the vibrancy from Ayman's world. The pain he endured was palpable, an ache that transcended the boundaries of mere physical discomfort. It was a relentless throb, a constant reminder of the hollowness that now echoed through every facet of his existence.

Each day unfurled like a relentless tempest, the passage of time etching deeper lines of despair across Ayman's countenance. His eyes, once radiant with life, now mirrored the shadows of his tormented soul. The bedside vigil became an altar of his devotion, a sacred space where hope teetered on the precipice of desolation.

Maha's healing wounds, a slow symphony of regeneration, cast flickers of optimism into the cavern of Ayman's despair. The wounds were testament to her body's resilience, stitching together fragments of shattered hope. As the scars gradually yielded to the healing touch of time, Ayman found solace in the tangible evidence that life persisted beneath the surface.

Yet, hope, like a fragile ember, persisted in the haunting labyrinth of Ayman's heart. Each day spent by Maha's side was a pilgrimage, a communion with the dormant spirit encased within her fragile form. Her healing wounds became an allegory of endurance, whispering promises of a rekindled dawn that would herald her awakening.

Amidst the tapestry of his pain, Ayman relinquished the trappings of his once-thriving life. The sprawling empire he had meticulously built now lay in the capable hands of Ummita, his elder sister. She navigated the corridors of corporate responsibility with a tenacity born of familial duty, yet Ayman's absence cast a long shadow over the once-thriving business.

His world had constricted to the confines of Maha's room, where every breath became an homage to their shared existence. The business empire, now in Ummita's stewardship, reflected the dichotomy of Ayman's sacrifice—a testament to the lengths love would stretch in the face of adversity.

Days blurred into nights, but Ayman's gaze remained steadfast, fixated on the serene countenance of Maha. Her face, a canvas that bore the delicate strokes of convalescence, invited his unwavering scrutiny. The machines, entwined like silent sentinels, hummed with the pulse of life that coursed through her inert form.

As the world outside bustled with the ebb and flow of existence, Ayman's existence revolved around the silent ballet of hope and despair. Ummita's managerial prowess sustained Ayman's legacy, yet the void left by Ayman's absence echoed louder than the resounding success of his business ventures.

Hope, stubborn as a desert bloom, persisted against the backdrop of collective skepticism. Even as the familial entourage relinquished their belief in Maha's reawakening, Ayman clung to the belief that her eyelids would flutter open once more.

In the sanctuary of her room, the air pulsated with the unspoken vow—that even with the wearied passage of five months, even when the world around them had surrendered to the funeral dirge of hopelessness, Ayman's unwavering faith remained—a beacon in the endless night that she would, one day, awaken.

Ummita had a look of pity as she stared at her brother's face, he had eye bags under his eyes and he looked like a walking dead. All effort to make him leave the chair by Maha's bedside had prove futile for the past five months. Everyday, he would sit on that same chair keenly watching Maha's face, he only stood up if he needed to use the bathroom and even if he was to leave, he would make sure that someone he trusted is by her side.

It all felt like a déjà vu, it was as if Aisha's death was happening all over again. Only this time Ayman looked more shattered, he looked like he had given up all hopes on life. He talked to no one, everyday he would sit on the chair and keep staring at Maha's face, sometimes Ummita would wonder whether he didn't get tired of staring.